Drifting
by Noxid Anamchara
Summary: She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself, holding tight to what little warmth she had. The sun began to peek above the hills, hues of orange and light purple casting an arc of color across the white sky. It was beautiful in the silence that stretched around her, giving her the allusion that she was the only person left to drift through this forgotten world.


**Noxi**: A companion to Sempaiko's art "Thanks for the Scarf, Pookie". This is my interpretation of it. Just a little piece on the snowbabies. Seriously though. Go praise the gorgeous art.

**Warning**: Excessive cute and fluff, lots of Caryl feels, and just general babes.

**Disclaimer**: TWD belongs to Kirkman and AMC.

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><p><span><strong>D<strong>_rifting_

You got used to things. The weather, the sleepless nights, the _fear _that settled in your chest. You never really conquered it. You just learned to control it. Tonight was just the opposite. It was too cold, she couldn't sleep, and the fear that she had learned to quell was rising quickly like bile in the back of her throat. It was over the simplest things, but it was there nonetheless. But like all late night panic attacks she learned to swallow her fear, wipe her mouth, and keep on.

It was just the way it had to be. There was no room for her to be afraid, not anymore at least. Traveling north, away from the home where they had lost everyone and everything, had seemed like a good choice in the beginning. Now, covered by seven inches of snow, she was beginning to regret it. It was so damn cold, and they weren't truly equipped to handle it. Of course, they were prepared for anything. But she was wearing a light coat in the middle of November and even as she slept beside her companions their warmth did nothing to ease the shiver that had settled deep in her bones.

She was getting _old_.

So instead of freezing to sleep, she decided to watch the sun rise over the white covered hills, an experience she had never had. She pulled the poncho over her head, and breathed in the cold air, lungs burning. She exhaled and her breath clouded white in front of her. She smiled, watching as it drifted off into nothing. She turned toward the sky, and laughed softly, as snow drifted down, dusting her nose and cheeks. She would never get over the delicate beauty of something that could be both refreshing and destructive.

She shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself, holding tight to what little warmth she had. The sun began to peek above the hills, hues of orange and light purple casting an arc of color across the white sky. It was beautiful in the silence that stretched around her, giving her the allusion that she was the only person left to drift through this forgotten world.

It was _perfect_.

And for as cold as she was, she wouldn't trade this moment for anything. She was alive to be cold, and she was alive to witness this beauty. She would hold this close, letting it be the warmth to keep her steady.

She may have been old, but she wasn't weak. And a little cold wouldn't deter her from living.

She flinched at touch of cotton around her neck, hand dropping to the knife at her waist, breath rushing from her; _fear _paralyzing her for a fraction of a heartbeat.

"Easy," he murmured, and her heart beat an erratic pattern in her chest even as she breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced back at him, watching as he wrapped the scarf around her neck, lips tilting up just the slightest. She knew he was laughing at her response to his touch.

"Figured you were cold." She reached out and let her hand graze his at their sides before smiling, eyes lighting up in gratitude. A touch of gratitude always conveyed her feelings better than words with him. But she still said them anyway.

"Thank you," she murmured as she buried her chin into the warmth at her neck, eyes closing at the lingering scent of leather and musk. That smell was around her, always _comforting_. He lifted the end and looped it one more time, smiling down at her, fingers pinching the end of the cotton like he was pondering something else.

"For what?" Her lips turned up and she leaned over, pressing her lips to his cheek gently, breathing the warmth of his skin. His hair tickled her face, always longer than hers. She lingered longer than necessary, unable to stop from leaning into _him; _all leather and calloused and** strong**. She pulled away, ducking her head and avoiding his eyes. She had thought it would be easier, being with him. But it turned out _he _was the confident one between them. Sometimes he just made her feel like a bumbling idiot.

"For the scarf," she whispered, bumping his shoulder to soften her nerves. "_Pookie,_" she added as an afterthought, liking the sound of the pet name in the silence between them. It was becoming more and more a signal that she was overwhelmed by her own damn nerves and needed to ease the tension. He rolled his eyes and bumped his hip against hers.

It was the silence she loved the most between them. Any other silence was either eery or full of anticipation or dread. And even sometimes, it was just enough to capture the beauty of a moment. But it was _theirs _she loved most of all.

There were so many things that passed between them; a word, a glance, a touch, a _feeling_. They didn't have to say much these days when their bodies did the talking.

She leaned into his body, vibrating as his arm came up around her shoulder, his face buried in her hair, the whisper of his lips pressing to her head.

She could just make out the their movement and she knew the tempo of that word as if it were a very piece of her.

_Mine_.

She curled in his arm, tucking herself further into his side until she felt secure enough in his grasp to rest her head on his shoulder, ear pressed firmly to his chest and listened to the sound of his steady heartbeat. Watching as the snow fell around them, she pressed her hands between them, curling her fingers into the pockets of his leather jacket, and sighed contently.

She wasn't alone. She had _never _been alone.

Cold or no, this was where she belonged.

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><p><strong>AN**: Perhaps this is more Caryl-y than the creator of the art had imagined. But I hope everyone likes it regardless. This takes place a few years in the future and not everyone is the same.


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